Beard to Beard

I thought it might be a good idea to inform you, my adoring public, that I have been undergoing some health issues lately, which have kept me away from the blog.

I have been experiencing problems with my back, which (according to Dr. Todd) may or may not be indicative of a more serious problem which may or may not require surgical intervention, and/or may or may not result in the loss of use in my haunch region. Honestly, Dr. Todd is just FONT of helpful and specific information.

Basically, what happened was this: I tried to alert Mama Dog that I was ready to go out for my morning constitution before breakfast. As I was gesticulating (because she is quite deaf to my cries of hunger in the morning, it seems) I wrenched a tender spot in my back, causing pain and temporary spasm in the muscular tissue of my lower half. She completely freaked out, called the vet and took away all things good and fun in my life.

I was immediately put to bed and given medicinal cheese. That part isn’t so terrible. She rubbed some smelly essential oils on my feet and my back. I would never tell her this, but the oils and the massage helped with the pain … but the smell was still very weird. Bachmann mentioned the odor repeatedly. Every time I had to go outside to conduct *business* – she or Daddy Dog carried me. And watched me. Rude. And this turned out not to be some ‘one day only’ type of thing …

It’s been a few weeks and I’m still not allowed to do anything I like to do. No jumping on the furniture — even when the sun is beaming in on the couch and I’m in desperate need of recharging. No going out on the back porch … unless someone carries me. No working with my Companions unless being closely supervised (ie. watched like a hawk)by Mama Dog, Daddy Dog, or one of the Children. It’s so limiting.

I continue to get the medicinal cheese, which is good, though very small in dosage. And they continue to apply the stinky oils to my feet daily, which Bachmann continues to complain about. And apparently, I’m not a *cooperative* little dog, because now, they have started blocking my access to furniture completely with what they refer to as “baby rails.” Honestly, I jumped onto my favorite perch the other morning and you would have thought I sprouted horns and a forked tail … Mama and Daddy Dog raced into the family room and removed me from my spot, scolded me and next thing I know – BAM! – blockades on all the furniture.

They never leave me alone now, either. I mean, I am supervised all the time. If someone has to leave the house, they make sure someone is left at home to monitor my activity. (Which is part of the reason I’ve been offline so long … how am I supposed to get any quality work done with people watching me all the time?!) If Mama and Daddy Dog both have to go out, they leave Big Kid home. He’s not so bad, I guess … I can usually get him to lift me onto the couch where he sits watching television or playing one of his ‘games’. Still, I miss my privacy a great deal.

I’ve been told I am a good dog. I’ve been told I’m so sweet and precious and that everyone loves me. But I’ll be honest … it feels very much like they want Georgie to suffer from boredom and lack of activity. I smell Dr. Todd’s quackery all over this. Especially since this whole *treatment* thing has also started to involve fewer treats, reduced food portions and an overall *weight loss protocol* that is supposed to reduce the stress on my spine. Uh huh … Dr. Todd and his hatred of the Irish-Viking Dachshund continues …

Now … Mama Dog claims this is a temporary situation. She says I am going to be traveling to the university veterinary college where I will undergo an evaluation by a neurologist, and possibly a CT scan and second examination by an orthopedic surgeon. She says this will lead to me being able to resume my normal activities. She says a lot of stuff while she’s barricading me from my favorite places to climb and blocking me from the back porch steps and carting me in and out of the house to go pee, which is just humiliating. Most of what she says is “for my own good,” and I’m getting pretty tired of hearing that crap. All this ‘for my own good’ business is leaving me … disgruntled.

So. There you have it. The sad tale of my existence these days. Confined to ground level, monitored every minute and prohibited from fun and excitement. The only thing I have going for me these days is that I get to ‘sleep out’ at night and am no longer confined in my crate. But the couch is still off limits and they always leave the remotes for the TV up there so I can’t even watch my favorite programs after everyone else has gone to bed. Plus, Mama Dog always puts this stinky stuff in her essential oil diffuser at night that she says will help me relax and rest during the night. All I’ve been doing lately is rest and relax! But it does serve as a nightlight and I can see to supervise some of my Companions if I’m quiet and remember to put everyone and everything back exactly as it was before Mama Dog gets up in the morning. And if I remember to act really tired and weak when she comes into the family room. That sure makes her agreeable, when she thinks I’m all stiff and sore from my ‘condition’. Ha ha ha. Georgie still has a few tricks up her sleeve!

I will try to keep you posted, gentle readers, on my progress with physical therapy, medication and the like. I believe Mama Dog has been keeping her readers updated on my condition on her social media account, but I wouldn’t know, as, again, I am locked out of most of my technology because it requires more physicality that I’m allowed at this time. But I would greatly appreciate your thoughts and good wishes. And, as always, I thank you for your support.

Friends, you simply cannot imagine how harrowing and difficult the past few weeks have been for me. And so I will tell you, in great detail.

I was born in the Gulag, to a poor peasant dachshund. In spite of my humble – impoverished, even – circumstances, I overcame my indigence to become the successful entrepreneur and dachshund rights activist that I am today. But it wasn’t easy. There were many obstacles and hurdles placed in my way, by those who resented my ambition and even those who claimed to love me.

Eight years ago, I was adopted by Daddy and Mama Dog. They brought me to live with them in their run down shack in the middle of nowhere. While my new surroundings were only slightly better than the gulag, I was at least part of a loving, caring family … or so I believed.

The entrance to our hovel is impeded by a fragmented pile of ruptured concrete, which my family refers to as “a porch.” Daddy Dog has staunchly refused to repair this death trap – he believes, apparently, that it will serve as a deterrent to unwanted salesmen and wheeled robots. Over the years there have been numerous injuries stemming from this dangerous assemblage of mutilated rock. Mama Dog fell once and her injuries almost resulted in the amputation of both legs. And still, Daddy Dog did nothing. Negligence is what I call it, but … whatever.

Which brings me to my current condition …

A few weeks ago, I was outside, doing my dog chores. I had checked in (verbally) with all the “damn gophers,” and conducted a thorough physical examination of all their communications portals. As it was a sunny day, I spent a little extra time recharging my haunches and enjoying the warmth of a particularly potent sunbeam. It was quite restorative and lovely. Because it had been almost a week since my last mandatory ablution, I had built up a substantial musky veil and I was exquisitely pungent. I felt powerful and robust. Invincible. My fey instincts should have warned me that menace lurked in the shadows … but they must have been dampened by the days’ solar emanation. Or maybe I was just sleepy. In any event, I was unsuspecting of the impending calamity.

Later that evening, I prepared for my nighttime retirement. I had taken a fairly substantial pre-bedtime nap and was looking forward to settling in with my cookie and the new issue of “Noveau Viking Cuisine.” The Big Kid began his silliness … dragging me out of The Family Bed and trying to sweet-talk me into going out into the dark, frigid night for one last constitution of the day. I went, against my better judgment. I did my business – we don’t need to go into detail about that. I announced my readiness to come back into the house. The Big Kid ignored me. I cried out again – it was cold and I was quickly losing core temperature. Finally, he came slowly out to free me from my shackles. I sprinted toward the door. I leaped onto “the porch,” and suddenly … I felt a wrenching, agonizing, excruciating pain in my foot. My rear passenger-side foot had become wedged in one of the deep chasms riddling the mass of debris. I let out a wail of distress. The Big Kid was unsympathetic – he insisted I quit lollygagging and get in the house. I cried out, trying to communicate my pain to him, but he was impatient and unmoved. Finally, in a final attempt to gain his attention, I barked out one last groaning bellow. He belatedly knelt to see what was troubling me and discovered my predicament.

Gentle readers, the pain from this incident was beyond unbearable. Panic began to set in as the Big Kid clumsily tried to free me from my bondage. He wiggled and yanked and tore at my limb until I thought I was going to black out from the torment. At last, he called for Daddy and Mama Dog, who came slowly, grumbling about my inconvenience and inconsiderate temperament. When they realized that I was injured, they instantly became solicitous – no doubt in an attempt to avoid litigation.

Daddy Dog was able to wrench my foot loose and I was free to move. Unsurprisingly, no one offered me medical attention, nor did they offer to carry me to bed. They immediately went back to their television program, leaving me to limp painfully to my cold, solitary room where one tiny cookie waited.

I passed the night in terrible discomfort, alone, unloved and betrayed by the family who was supposed to be my support system. I was distressed to say the least.

The next morning, after Bachmann witnessed me limping into my office in the Family Bed, he suggested that we might be able to seek legal justice for my suffering. I gave him a small retainer and told him to get to work on a case.

Now, Bachmann isn’t really a very good lawyer, but he does work cheap. Even so, he was able to determine that because my family doesn’t actually own the shanty where we live, I cannot sue them to recover medical expenses, nor can I seek punitive damages for my pain and suffering from them directly. However, Bachmann also determined that I can seek legal recourse from the landowners … which, as luck would have it, include Tootsie Wootsie – my human grandparents’ chubby, yippy, silly, insufferable faux-dachshund. Well, isn’t that just a big basket of day old toast? Ha, ha, ha.

Unfortunately, while he works cheap, Bachmann is terribly undependable. And just as we were beginning to build a strong case against Tootsie, he absconded with my retainer and fled to the hinterlands of the Little Nokasippi wilderness to pan for gold with his childhood friend, Arlo. I haven’t heard from him in days.

Left in the lurch, so to speak, I was unsure how to proceed until Hobart the Holiday Hedgehog came to see me two days ago with an interesting proposal. Apparently, he has spent quite a bit of time clerking for Bachmann and felt that he could handle my case on his own. He had put together some notes on a plan of attack, and after looking them over, I felt confident that he could do at least as good a job as that no account beaver. I hired him on the spot.

Hobart enlisted Ernst to clerk for him and to be assistant counsel. While his verbal communication skills are lacking in almost every way, Ernst actually has quite a keen legal mind. Hobart set him to work researching case law and precedent. And after I provided him with a wide-button keyboard, Ernst was able to write several briefs and file multiple motions against Tootsie, who has evidently decided to represent herself in court.

This morning, during our consult, Hobart informed me that he has secured Judge Molly Mae – a very wise, fair-minded half breed who lives in the neighborhood – to oversee the court proceedings. And he also mentioned that he’s hired Raoul the Raccoon as an investigator, to see what other dirt (besides being a slum lord) he can dig up on Tootsie.

I am trying to heal, both physically and emotionally. The pain, though … the deep, deep pain is with me all the time. Some of my Companions have sent cards and notes of well wishing, though I suspect they are secretly happy to have a hiatus in their training regimens. I have consumed many cups of bone broth, prepared for me lovingly by my Mama Dog, who saw the error of her callous treatment and is now working hard to make amends. Daddy Dog has still not fixed the gaping maw in the “porch” and I am forced to try and maneuver around the mocking fissure every time I have to go number 1 or number 2. I am considering naming him as an accessory in my lawsuit, especially after a humiliating incident this morning.

I was deeply cold and tired and Daddy Dog’s fat haunch had taken up the entire seat of the comfy couch that was in a strong sunbeam. I needed the restorative power of that sunbeam to help me heal on a cellular level, which he well knew. But not only would he not move over and make room for me, he would not reach down and offer me any assistance, instead choosing to make me attempt a dangerous jump that very well could have exacerbated my injury. And when I was unable to make the jump from floor to furniture … he laughed at me. Cruelly. Fuckler. So. We’ll see if he’s laughing so hard when I slap him with a subpoena and name him as a co-defendant in this suit. Won’t we?

This is a photo of the crevasse that almost claimed my limb and very possibly my life. Notice the dark, evil vortex shafting down into who-knows-where. Can’t you feel the malevolence oozing from it’s depths? I certainly can.

Here is a close up … (Warning: This photo is not suitable for children) It’s TERRIFYING, isn’t it??

I will keep you posted, dear readers, on the status of my legal struggle, as well as my journey back to health. I know the road will be long and arduous and I do ask for your thoughts and well wishes. Donations to my legal fund can be sent in care of this blog to: Justice for Georgie, PO Box 123, Family Bed, postal code 56789. I look forward to speaking to you again from a stronger and more vigorous status. And as always, I thank you for your support.

Well, it is January, and I, along with many other Irish-Viking Dachshund Americans are starting the new year with the idea of being healthier. My promise to myself, and my Companions, was to spend 2016 trying to exercise more, eat more nutritiously, and generally take better care of myself. Of course, my loyal Companions were eager to join me in this endeavor.

To this end, I began incorporating healthy habits in the Family Bed right away. I’ve eliminated in between meal snacking by putting a retinal scanner on the Commissary door. Since none of the Companions have actual retinas – it’s been working very effectively. Of course, Bachmann has tried to outsmart the locking mechanism several times, but he’s only accomplished getting himself zapped by the alarm system. It’s amusing, but growing tiresome. I do hope he finds a better way to occupy himself soon.

Another health-conscious change to the Bed has been increased workouts for all Companions. We are all benefiting from these expanded conditioning sessions. In fact, I’ve already seen a huge difference in Candace’s balance and Je M’appelle Claude’s eye/claw coordination. Even Ernst is looking more svelte and sleek. I, myself, noticed a significant increase in my own haunch-flex ratio after just a few weeks of daily work.

Naturally, diet is one of the most important components of good health. Nutrition has always been a priority in the Family Bed, and now, more than ever, I am making decisions about food choices with that in mind. I’ve added many more nuts and legumes to the menu plans – a change that most of the Companions are quite pleased over. Of course, many of the aquatic creatures are disappointed with the lack of variety in the seafood department, but as I’ve explained many times, we just don’t have sufficient refrigerator space to keep seafood fresh for any length of time. And no one wants old fish stinking up the place. Except Bachmann, but he’s always the dissenter in any conversation. I do try to bring in organically raised, sustainably-sourced wild-caught salmon when possible and Raoul likes to grill it with just a little lime juice and dill. Very tasty.

Additionally, I’m regularly attending local farmer’s markets to obtain the freshest possible produce for my vegetarian Companions. Well, and for myself, of course – who does’t love a fresh, crisp apple right out of Mama Dog’s hand? Hmmm?? While I have been forced to outsource for some of our dietary needs – dairy in particular (Candace doesn’t like to talk about it, but she’s lactose intolerant, which is quite embarrassing for a cow, as you would imagine.) – most of the Companions don’t mind only having goats’ milk cheese or yogurt a few times a week.

We’ve been working to eliminate artificial food from our diets, as well, including sugar. And believe me, that hasn’t been easy. Dijon in particular has quite the sweet tooth. I’ve been substituting stevia in my dessert recipes with good success. Dijon has not seemed to notice any loss of sweetness or richness in his nightly dish of flan, for which I am grateful. He becomes absolutely unbearable when he doesn’t have his nightly flan … breathing fire over the other Companions as they try to watch television in the Commons area, slashing his tail around the room, bellowing, and generally making a real scene. It’s just better to avoid that sort of theatrics altogether whenever possible.

Overall, I believe the Companions are much more focused mentally with the addition of these changes in physical activity and nutrition. I’ve kept careful notes in their behavior charts over the past few weeks and have seen an upswing in both their general happiness and gross motor function. It’s very rewarding to see a plan achieve such success.

As we move forward, I will be increasing the number of discussion group sessions for the Companions, as well. I think giving them more opportunity to work through their individual issues through group discourse will bring them closer together and create a real sense of community within the Bed. As I have mentioned before, Family Bed harmony is often non-existent. And I plan to incorporate even more options for physical training as the weather warms up and the Companions can work out of doors. Tai Chi on the Lawn; Gopher Hole Digging 101; Voice Projection; Releasing Your W.O.I.D. (Wrath of Irish Dachshund); and Quiet Wandering are just a few of the new classes that will begin in the spring. There is already considerable interest in this area.

I sincerely hope each of you is experiencing the success with your own goals for the new year that we in the Family Bed Education, Training and Rehabilitation Center are experiencing. I just can’t express how rewarding it is to lead this group of Companions on a path to better health and well-being. Oh, yes, a few are not really coming along willingly. But you always have a few stragglers and late-bloomers in any educational setting, don’t you? You just drag them along until they get tired of fighting you and then … well, everyone’s happy, aren’t they? Indeed.

So. Good luck to all of you, dear readers, in your New Year’s goals and objectives. Good Day, and thank you for your support.

The view from the Family Bed is rarely a peaceful one. As is so often the case, Bachmann has made himself a nuisance in The Family Bed once again.

Over the past weeks, since before Thanksgiving, he’s been causing all sorts of trouble for the other Companions and for me. His porky mouth and reckless beaver antics have crossed numerous lines of Family Bed etiquette and socially acceptable behavior. At times, he’s been almost unseemly.

Now, I consider myself to be a very patient, loving, and understanding dachshund. But that beaver is certainly creating a tense, and uncomfortable situation with his conduct.

At first, he was just shooting off his porky mouth. He would taunt some the other Companions and make fun of their various and sundry deficiencies. For example, one afternoon, I heard him jeering at poor, sweet, harmless Ernst.

“Hey, Eggplant!” he was gibing. “How’s about you and I mix it up with a game of Boggle?! You know what’s a four-letter word for stupid?? E-R-N-S-T!”

He was deliberately mocking poor Ernst’s lack of vocabularical prowess. It was sickening. I reprimanded him immediately, but he exhibited not a single shred of remorse.

Another time, I caught him following Candace down her narrow hallway, poking a piece of string cheese between her two feet, trying to trip her. He was making mooing noises and ridiculing her awkward mobility. Disgusting. And even though I took away his electronics privileges and his dessert privileges for a week, the horrible comportment continued.

It all came to a head the other day, when Bachmann decided to make what I can only assume was his Bull Run stand by challenging me to a staring contest. He’s always been so very dramatic.

Now, at first, I didn’t realize what he was doing. I was in the middle of a well-deserved and much-needed nap when the sound of him wheezing through his front teeth roused me.

But he continued to stare at me with those beady little beaver eyes, not saying a word. Which was very unusual, because generally he can’t keep that porky mouth shut.

I became instantly alert.

“Bachmann,” I sighed. “What are you playing at? Can’t you see I’m busy and don’t have time for your shenanigans?”

Still, he continued to challenge me with his bore-like gaze. I began to wonder if he was experiencing a medical situation that was preventing him from speaking or moving … or blinking. Even so, his insubordination could not be tolerated.

“Bachmann,” I warned. “Cut it out. If you continue with this defiant and threatening provocation, you will be sorry. And by sorry, I mean you’re going to end up crying like a little she-beaver. You better knock it off and leave me to my nap.”

Honestly, I gave him every opportunity to retract his confrontation. I offered him multiple activities and constructive ideas as alternatives to this hostility. I entreated him to rethink his folly and each time he refused to back down. He didn’t simply refuse to back down, he grew more and more belligerent.

And then this happened …

This is me, setting out to open a can of Whoop-De-Do on Bachmann’s Beaver butt. Note the terror his his expression as he tries to scramble out of the path of my wrath. But his short little beaver feet couldn’t move fast enough to avoid me dealing him a heaping helping of comeuppance.

I worked him over pretty good. I’ll grant him this much … he took the waling I gave him with dignity – for a short minute. Then he started blubbering and crying and apologizing and begging for mercy. It was most satisfying. I even took him back inside the compound so the other Companions could watch. And since Bachmann had been making their lives uncomfortable and difficult for weeks, they were very enthusiastic about the entire affair.

Afterwards, Bachmann slunk off to his room to lick his wounds, while the rest of the Family Bed enjoyed cake and punch courtesy of the Festivity Committee. Overall, it was a lovely end to the day.

It’s been just a few days since what is being referred to around the Bed as ‘The incident’. Bachmann resurfaced just this morning, took his toast and coffee alone in the Commissary and then retreated again to his room. He hasn’t spoken to anyone since his beatdown, but many Companions have reported receiving letters and notes of apology via Inter-Family-Bed mail. So it would seem Bachmann has possibly learned a lesson. Or not. Only time will tell this beaver tale …

I’m not one to belabor a point. Really, I try to say what needs to be said and move on. I simply do not have the time to spend on rehashing, revisiting, reiterating or otherwise continuing to yammer on about a subject once it has been discussed.

However … It has recently come to my attention that a particular subject, which is very dear to me, is in desperate need of revisiting.

I have mentioned before, the importance of having access to a constant heat source. I discussed in detail here the need for public awareness on Nook Neutrality. And I warned, gentle readers, most vehemently of the dangers of living without a cold weather plan here. Yet every day, I receive countless emails, letters and text messages from cold, miserable pets who are living without even the most basic of cold weather essentials. And it concerns me. Greatly.

Friends, if you do not currently have access to a Nook, a hot blanket, a generously sized sunbeam, an oven in the ‘bake’ setting, or a chuffy Daddy Dog beside whom you can nestle and absorb heat — you are in trouble. You must prepare NOW. Winter is coming. I daresay it’s arrival is imminent. You are running out of time to procure the items which will make possible your survival in the frigid, bitter temperatures of the coming season.

In my own home, I am still lacking access to the Nook I am certain is in the basement. But on cool mornings, Mama Dog often turns on the oven in the kitchen to bake or roast something and I am content to lie pressed up to it’s base, soaking up precious warmth and delicious aromas. In the evenings, Daddy Dog frequently places me next to him on the sofa, allowing his overwhelming body heat (from the extra winter pounds he carries year-round) to pass directly to my flank, haunch and bank – my primary heat absorbers. Many days, the children will open the curtains in the family room just enough to allow a Dachshund sized sunbeam to land across the floor so I can replenish my energy stores. Or they will cover me, as I lie in repose on the back of the little couch, with a blanket, towel or Mama Dog’s sweater (which she thoughtfully leaves on the arm of the furniture upon her nighttime retirement). So you see, while I am without Nookability, I am not left to wither and die from the cold.

Ask yourselves, dear friends – how is your human family accommodating you? Do they go out of their way to assure your warmth and comfort? Or do they simply swath you in a tacky holiday-themed sweater or coat and send you into the frigid abyss to be mocked for a fashion disaster over which you have no control? If the answer is the latter – well, you have a serious problem and it needs to addressed immediately. Or sooner.

Do whatever is necessary to make your comfort a priority in your house. Petition your humans. Call your Senators and Representatives. Make your voice heard and heard loudly. DEMAND a Nook. Withhold your household services if you must. Make your needs KNOWN. Your continued comfort and existence depends on your willingness to stand up for your well-being and your ability to convey this very important message to your family: I am COLD and I will not TOLERATE these conditions any longer!

I will be sharing, over the next weeks and months, many tips and helpful plans of action you can use to turn your home into a haven of warmth and comfort throughout the cold weather season. Some may seem drastic, but my reader feedback has shown there are many, many, many of you who are totally unprepared, completely unready and most likely destined to perish without intervention of some sort. I would prefer that not happen.

For the time being, make sure you are seeking warmth wherever and whenever possible – even if it involves rolling yourself up in piles of dirty laundry waiting to be washed. Some of my warmest naps have taken place in Daddy Dog’s discarded shirts. Do your best to express your needs to your humans and take heart for I am here to guide and advise you to a winter season of absolute plushiousness. Thank you for your support.

Well. Clearly I have been absent from the blog for some time. I wish I had a good excuse, but the truth is that my humans are just selfish, selfish people who do not consider my needs, or the needs of my subscribers. I apologize, dear readers, for the terrible loss you’ve suffered at the hands of my humans. Let me explain how they are responsible for the lack of posts on my blog of late …

First of all, that Big Kid – the one we call Lunky – started playing some game called football. Now, I distinctly remember hearing him say that this wasn’t something he wanted to do, but Daddy Dog said he was going to do it anyway and there was some big brouhaha about it. Anyway, now Lunky is doing this football thing in a town 90 miles from where we live and Mama Dog or Daddy Dog has to take him 3 days a week, plus every single weekend, to practices and games and such. Of course they don’t invite me along … typical — leave your faithful and long-suffering dachshund at home while you galavant around America. pfft

Additionally, the two Sissies (made up of The Little Blonde Girl & The Little Brown-Haired Girl) joined some kind of competitive dance team. Mama Dog or Daddy Dog (or sometimes even Grandma and Grandpa) have to take them to practices in another town, which means an extra two days every week when no one is home. Oh sure, they leave a lamp on for me and sometimes they make sure I have fresh water before they disappear. But precious little time is spent seeing to the comfort of the Household Supervisor. It’s insulting.

The past few weeks, Mama Dog has been especially absent – again, without my permission – as she tends to her duties as what she calls ‘Prairie Flower Color Mama’. Now. I have absolutely no idea what this is, but she’s pretty wound up about it. In fact, this morning, when Bachmann returned from his early morning swim through the water lines and told me that he’d accidentally caused a leak somewhere in the system … well, I wasn’t surprised when Mama Dog started having a meltdown after discovering there was no water. She was ranting and raving about having to wash some ‘Prairie Flower’ costumes and how they had to be done today and now there wasn’t any water. It was quite something. I thought it best not to mention Bachmann’s inadvertent involvement in her dilemma – no sense in making her even more upset. But I have to wonder about her sanity at this point, as most prairie flowers I’ve seen in the wild aren’t wearing synthetics …

Without so much as a ‘by your leave’, Daddy Dog left abruptly right after lunch to go do some farm thing or another. I tried to go with him but he rudely shoved me aside with his foot and shut the door in my snout. Have you ever?! I know! I just don’t think there’s any excuse for that kind of behavior. He’s still not back as I hurriedly type this update – a fact that hasn’t endeared him to me, as even though he didn’t have time to take me with him on this trip – this morning he managed to find enough time to drag me out into the yard and douse me with some sort of “anti-fungal” powder like a common criminal getting a lice treatment. It was embarrassing and wouldn’t you know it that Bachmann had lined up several members of the Family Bed to watch my humiliation. They’ve been making fun of me all afternoon and I’m going to have some serious work to do with each of them when classes resume in the morning. My point is that even when there was an excellent opportunity presented to him, for Daddy Dog to spend quality time with me, working on the farm together … he betrayed me.

Now when Daddy Dog and Mama Dog leave me at home alone, they turn on a light but don’t leave the television on for me to watch while they are gone. They no longer leave the door to the laundry/mud room open, either. And I’m not allowed to go into the bedrooms or bathroom in the back part of the house unless I’m supervised by an adult. And they turn off the WiFi when they leave. Can you imagine the indignation? As Household Supervisor I should require no supervision in my own household. But due to a few unfortunate incidents involving some vegetable scraps, a few pay-per-view movies, a home video that accidentally got uploaded to YouTube, and that really shocking bathroom trash situation a few months ago, Bachmann has managed to destroy the trust I enjoyed from my humans just a short while ago. That porky beaver does nothing but make trouble! Somehow, Daddy Dog got the idea (and managed to convince Mama Dog) that I was jealous of being left alone so much and lashed out. They think I’m the one who perpetrated these heinous acts of domestic vandalism! I know, gentle readers, I am as shocked and dismayed by this lack of trust as you are.

The point of all this, friends, is to assure you that I am not leaving the blogging world. I am, however, going to have to restore order to my household, even if it means doing something drastic. I don’t know what that will be at this time. I do remember that after Bachmann got into the garden scraps bucket and ate all those radish scraps that made me so sick I threw up all over Mama Dog’s new white rug in the family room … well, she got pretty attentive to me right then. Maybe Bachmann should do something like that again. I mean, after all, it’s for the good of the family. We need to spend more time together and I need them to be here at home so we can do that. It’s for the children. Also, I need to be able to have Internet access again if I’m to keep up with my demands as a blogger/life coach/screen writer/Dachshund activist.

So. That’s my plan to bring my family home again. As always, thank you for your support.

This week, Mama Dog devoted an entire post to me on her blog. As is my due.

Being a generous, thoughtful, considerate, selfless, loving dog – I want to say a few words about her as well.

Where to begin …

Well, for starters, she never lets me out in the morning first. She always goes to the bathroom herself, then comes to let me outside. Which I find to be pretty inconsiderate. Also, she doesn’t feed me before she puts me outside. Daddy Dog does, but he rarely gets up earlier than Mama Dog. And she puts me outside even if it’s raining. Or cold. Or windy. Or really hot. Like I said, no consideration at all for my comfort.

Another thing about Mama Dog that really bugs me – she talks to me constantly. As though I have the time or the inclination to converse with her all day long! She tells me about her plan for the day. (Like I care – I have my own plan.) She talks to me about her feelings. (Ack! Is there anything more gross?) She announces every little task or chore she’s about to perform. (Seriously – I do not need to know that you’re pouring a second cup of coffee … it’s not like you share that hazelnutty, creamy goodness with me anyway.)

She’s very clumsy. She’s always tripping over me or stubbing her toes on my shins when I stand in front of her. It’s like she has no control over her gross motor function at all. And even when I’m trying to move out of her way, she still trips over me by moving to the exact spot where I am. And she blames me. She says I’m like VISA – everywhere she wants to be. Can I help it if she can’t step more carefully?? I’ll grant you, she does say she’s sorry when she kicks me. But she never apologizes by dropping any of that food she’s carrying around the kitchen!

She never sits for very long in one place, either. Like, if I try to give her support for her “frazzled nerves” and such by laying in front of her chair while she and Daddy Dog are talking in the family room, for example. I’ll just get into a good, effectively supportive position under her feet when she decides she has to get up and go do something. Or when she’s “working” at the computer and I lay on top of her feet to show how much I care … what does she do? She has to go to the bathroom. Or change over laundry. Or take care of one of my human siblings. It’s just rude, the way she jumps up and dislodges me quite brutally, leaving me lying on the floor only half-awake.

Some of her other problems, not necessarily in order of how much they annoy me …

She’s a very neat eater, which means she almost never drops food. Even when she can clearly see how very hungry I am.

She’s way too independent. Everyone knows a Bathroom Supervisor is crucial to proper bathroom procedure. But would you believe she tries to go on her own all the time? And then I have to run in there after her to make sure she’s doing it right. What a chore!

She never takes me anywhere. She claims that just because I get a little carsick that I shouldn’t travel much. I only threw up that one measly time … and that was on Daddy Dog anyway. If he doesn’t care, why is she making such big deal about it?

She never wants to watch the television shows I want to watch. “Zombeaver” looks like an incredible cinematic masterpiece and I think she’s being narrow-minded in not letting Bachmann and I watch it.

She is CONSTANTLY taking pictures of me. I can’t nap. I can’t eat. I can’t supervise my Companions without having her camera all up in my business. I’m not sure what she does with all the photos, but so far, I haven’t seen a dime of compensation for all my inconvenience.

She’s not entirely bad, of course. I mean, she does have a few good qualities.

For example, she tells me all the time how beautiful and smart and clever I am. Which is all true, of course, but it’s good that she recognizes my attributes. And she has an Amazon Prime account which means she can buy my cookies and get them delivered fast, fast, fast. Because I don’t like to be without cookies. She did set up this blog for me, too. But it was all my idea so I don’t know if that counts in her favor – she might just be riding on my tail, so to speak. Oh, and she makes sure I have clean water to drink. So, you know, she knows how to provide basic care for another living being. Woo hoo.

So. There you have it. Some words about Mama Dog, in return for the feature she wrote about me on her blog. Good Day.

As much as it gives me pause to do so, I have consented to let Bachmann take another turn at having his own column on the blog. I do not suppose that much of what he’s about to tell you is the truth – he’s a wily beaver – but we shall see.

Beaver Tales by Bachmann T. Beaver

Growing up on the Little Nokasippi afforded me many opportunities to commune and become one with nature. One such opportunity was the time my friend Arlo and I decided to ‘tube’ down the river from the Big River (known to many as the Mighty Mississippi) west of Fort Ripley, all the way to Sebie Lake.

We knew it wouldn’t be just a single day trip, so we planned it over a long weekend in June, during the summer between our junior and senior year of college. Arlo had this beat up old canoe he’d been fixing up since Beaver Day in February. It was ugly as homemade sin, but he swore up and down on a stack of birch-bark that it would hold up. I argued that we needed a backup plan, just in case, and so Arlo finally agreed for each of us to carry an inflatable inner tube in our packs.

At this point, you might be wondering why in the world two savvy aquatic mammals would want to travel over the water as opposed to under it. I’ll admit that we are better suited to the submersible lifestyle, but we were looking for a real taste of Americana. We wanted to experience the blue sky above us and the sounds of the insects and birds around us and the fresh air in our noses. You just don’t see too much in the scenery department when you’re swimming under water. This was to be our last Great Adventure before moving out into the adult world and starting our own colonies.

*As a sidenote, to this day, neither Arlo nor myself has settled down into domestic beaver bliss. I can’t speak for Arlo, but I’m certain I don’t have any wayward kits roaming around North America, either. Of course, this is by my own choice – I could have my pick of lady beavers if I wanted. Arlo, however, has probably never settled down mainly due to a slight physical deformity that renders him incapable of , well … let’s just say he can’t build a dam to hold water, if you get my meaning. Also, Arlo doesn’t like to bathe, brush his teeth or practice any sort of personal hygiene. I believe it’s a factor in his pursuit of female companionship.

Now right away, I knew this trip was going to be difficult. Poor Arlo chipped a tooth right off the bat while trying to push the canoe into the water. He tripped over this backpack straps and went head over asphalt into the nose of the canoe. I took out my trusty Minnesota Beaver Scout knife with 17 different tools built in and filed the tooth down as smooth as I could. But it was still causing him some trouble, as it was uneven. And it’s awfully hard to gnaw with an uneven bite.

After we finally set sail, so to speak, and had been out in the river for a few hours, Arlo remembered that he’d brought along a deck of playing cards. We began to play Gin Rummy, but Arlo quickly got tired of that — I won every hand. I have a real knack for cards, you know. We played Hearts, Crazy Eights, Blackjack … Arlo lost every time. He got pretty frustrated and suggested a game I’d never heard of before – 52 Pickup. In the interest of keeping harmony in the canoe, I figured I’d be smart to go along with whatever Arlo wanted at that point, so I said I’d love to play. As it turned out, 52 Pickup wasn’t much of a game and after Arlo had scattered those cards all over the water, I inquired as to who was the winner. Arlo is something of a poor sport and he started ranting and raving, jumping up and down in the boat. I took that to mean I had won, but it was sort of a hollow victory.

All his yelling and screaming drew quite a bit of attention from the local Nokasippians. One old-timer, a muskrat who called himself ‘Pete Pete’, even threw sticks at us as we sailed by and shouted out, “Beaver punks!” Now I’m not sure whether he was offended particularly by Arlo’s outburst or beavers in general, but he was adamant either way.

We managed to make it around two bends of the river in that canoe before it finally sprung multiple leaks right before we met the Mississippi Fork. It was there that we had to abandon ship and scramble into our inflatables before a real Titanic moment was upon us. Arlo argued that we could tow the canoe the rest of the trip and repair it once we landed at Sebie Lake, but I thought that was a real bad idea. Before I had to present my own dissenting opinion on that subject, what was left of the canoe was caught in a wayward current and swept down the right fork and on down the Mississippi River. For a minute, I thought old Arlo was going to swim after it so I stayed ready to grab his tail and prevent him from doing something foolhardy. Just as Arlo lunged for the nose of the canoe as it disappeared into the Big River, though, his field glasses started to slide out of one of the pockets on his fishing vest. He made a grab for them – they were special because they’d been a gift from his great uncle Gene – and missed his opportunity to grab hold of the boat. He groused about losing that boat for months afterward. And I’m not sure Arlo really ever got over it.

Anyway, there we were, two madcap young beavers in the open water. My inner tube was just as comfortable as my own bed. I’d found it in an old salvage yard for farm equipment and I think it must have been from a tractor tire. It was spacious and stable on the river. I even had enough space to string up some netting I’d stuck in my pack to make a cover over the center hole. I tacked down a handkerchief or two so I had somewhere to lay my belongings, and the rest made a very comfortable relaxing surface. Many an hour I was lulled to sleep by the gentle bob and sway of the water. There’s just nothing like it.

Arlo wasn’t fairing as well. He’d really believed the canoe would make it all the way to Sebie Lake so he’s skimped a little on the back up inner tube. All he’d been able to find on short notice was the tube out of a bicycle – and a little bicycle at that. Arlo said he’d nabbed it from little Marlen Nordsterson’s yard when Marlen’s daddy was changing the tires out on his tricycle. Marlen was only 3 that summer, so he didn’t have a very big ride. I doubt if that tire was even twelve inches across. And it was skinny. Arlo – not so much. He’d put on the ‘Freshman 15’ and then some the first few years of college by eating in the school cafeteria all the time – loading up on all that rich rosewood pudding and mahogany fries really packed on the pounds. That little bitty tire was really struggling to keep Arlo afloat. I took his pack on board my own craft, but Arlo wasn’t sleeping much and I don’t think he much appreciated my attempt to help.

We sailed along for a few more days, finally making it to the sharp bend that flows right into Sebie Lake. By this time, poor Arlo was pretty wild-looking. He hadn’t slept for about 3 days and hadn’t eaten more than a few handfuls of wood shavings in that time. Every time he took one paw off his tube, it tipped over and dumped him off. I think he’d probably swum further than he’d floated on the entire trip, trying to keep up to his inner tube.

I knew the end of our trip was drawing near and I have to say, as much as I enjoyed the lazy days of floating peacefully on the water, I was happy for it to be over. I’d made arrangements before we left for my brother-in-law Donald to pick me up at the Sebie Lake Marina. I wanted to get back home in time for my mother’s birthday the following week.

As we landed on the shores of Sebie Lake, Donald was, indeed there to greet us. He had a thermos of hot sap and a copy of the latest issue of Beaver Illustrated, which was most welcoming. I felt relaxed and refreshed in a way I’ve never felt since. Even Donald commented on my vigor and good health. By the time Arlo wandered ashore, Donald and I had deflated my trusty inner tube and stowed my pack in the back of his truck. I offered Arlo some sap and he almost pulled my arm off grabbing at it. If you ever seen someone who wandered in the desert for days without water drink upon their rescue, then you’ll have a pretty good picture of what old Arlo looked like sucking the sap out of that thermos. Donald asked him if he’d like a ride home and darned if Arlo hadn’t decided to tube back to the Mississippi Fork and try to find his lost canoe! I tried to reason with him, but Arlo is as stubborn a beaver as ever there was so I wished him fair winds and went on home with Donald.

When Arlo didn’t show up for the first week of classes Senior year, I got pretty worried and was about to take some time off from my own studies to launch a search for him. But before I could get all the paperwork turned in, Arlo showed up at my dorm room door one morning, looking for all the world like he’d been a castaway on a deserted island for years. His teeth were yellow and uneven, his eyes wild and hungry. His fur was disheveled and overly greased and the beaver musk came off him in waves. I’m ashamed to admit that my old friend scared the vanilla right out of me.

As I sat him down and gave him some refreshments, he told me his story: He’d managed to locate a slightly more suitable inner tube in the Sebie Lake Marina, this time swiped from a 1987 Geo Metro in the parking lot. He made it through the fat rapids area of the Nokasippi and ventured out into the Mississippi to find his canoe without incident. But after four days on the Mississippi, he found himself floating through some golf course community near Brainerd and he’d completely lost the canoe’s trail. He tried back tracking for a few weeks, but never found any trace of his beloved ship. In despair, he decided to make a new life for himself in Crow Wing State Park, as a tourist attraction and naturalist. But when the rangers there found him peeping on some female tourists in their campsite, he was thrown out of the Park and decided to come home to finish his education. After graduation, though, Arlo put together a small band of hippie beavers and set out on another expedition to find that canoe. He didn’t find it then, but that hasn’t stopped him from searching for it ever since. I heard that last summer, he talked one of his relatives into financing a trip to the Yukon because he’d gotten news that a canoe had been spotted there.

Arlo and I haven’t maintained the best relationship over the years since then. We’ve drifted apart the way friends sometimes do. But I always think back on that river trip as one of my most defining moments in life. It was there, as I floated peacefully on the great Little Nokasippi, that I knew I what I wanted from life – to never, ever, become so attached to material possessions, like poor old Arlo, and spend my days chasing a mythical canoe.

I realize it’s been some time since my Independence Day post. I have been struggling with such fatigue and have found it most difficult to manage both my duties within the Family Bed and my obligations to you, gentle readers. Additionally, my Mama Dog has been in desperate need of a Social Secretary – someone to screen visitors and make appointments with other family members – and I simply could not refuse to offer her my assistance. It’s a rather mundane job, but my work with troubled Companions has made me specially suited to the task.

I have been resting as much as possible, though I am still deeply, deeply tired from the release of my W.O.I.D. (Wrath of Irish Dachshund) over the Fourth of July holiday. An unexpected water outage on the 4th delayed the actual celebration until the 5th. Bachmann swears he had nothing to do with the leak in the water line, but I don’t believe him. Forcing the celebration to be held on the anniversary of the Battle of the Manolada in 1316 is just too much of a coincidence. Bachmann is well known to have a fetish for the Infante Ferdinand of Majorca, and any opportunity he can find to dredge up that old chestnut … well, he takes it. If I have to hear him rant about how Ferdinand was robbed of his rightful claim to the Principality of Achaea, I’m going to boil his macaroni art. Gah …

Even though my family’s celebration was a day late, it was no less spectacular. I’m told the grilled hamburgers were quite tasty. As I wasn’t given the option of trying one for myself, I must go with popular opinion on that subject. I tried to preserve my strength as much as I could during the day, anticipating the release of my W.O.I.D. later on.

Once the fireworks began, I was able to put out a prolonged and impressive display of Irish Dachshund power. Here I am in the initial phase of W.O.I.D. release.

Note my upright, curled tail position and the focused intensity in my face. This is classically perfect form. I am leaning slightly forward on my Fraunches, allowing for more flexibility and torque in my rear quadrants. If Daddy Dog had not insisted on that ridiculous and heinously unflattering harness, I would have had the fireworks by the throat.

Here I am, approximately mid-release.

In this image, I am in a relaxed, yet alert and ready position. My tail is still elevated, signaling my preparedness for the battle. My haunches are flexed and in a widened stance, which gives me a powerful leaping ability. Again, the wretched harness is clearly holding me back and diminishing my impact.

The wind began to blow quite hard shortly after the mid-point of the fireworks display and Daddy Dog declared that we would be stopping for the night. But I was able to release the final vestiges of my W.O.I.D. before everyone dispersed.

This photograph captures me in meditation as I prepare myself for the recovery period. This process is crucial to my mental and physical well-being. Had I known Mama Dog was filming, I would have looked away, as it is a very private moment. But I’m choosing to share it with you, dear readers, in the hopes that you can gain further understanding into the mind of the native Irish Dachshund.

As I said, the recovery period for a total and complete W.O.I.D. release is substantial. I am still in partial convalescence, even though I am trying to keep up with my responsibilities both to my Companions and my human family. My humans have been most understanding over my need to take frequent and prolonged naps. My Companions have not.

I have found the Family Bed in complete disarray on a daily basis, despite my attempts to keep them tidy. Je m’appelle Claude, Plato-pus, and of course, Bachmann have been the biggest culprits in Family Bed disharmony over the past few weeks. My plan is to rest enough over this weekend and begin intensive training with them next week. I only hope it’s not too late.

Despite the delay in celebration, the utter exhaustion from the release, and the resulting chaos in the Family Bed, I am satisfied that this Independence Day will be remembered, as it should be.

Remember, dear friends, Independence is a right. Swimming through water lines and causing breaks and leaks is not. As always, thank you for your support.

Happy Independence Day. Or as we Irish Dachshunds call it, Tim Murphy Day. For surely this Irish frontiersman, this colonial sharpshooter, this ragged rebel serving under Daniel Morgan has done a service as integral to secure the birth of this Great Nation as any Founding Father.

Tim Murphy fearlessly and without hesitation fired a fatal shot into British General Simon Frasier, thus ensuring a turning point to the favor of the Patriot movement during the American Revolution. Without Mr. Murphy, there would likely not even be an America.

However you like to celebrate the 4th of July, be it with fireworks or barbecue (or both, as I do), remember Ireland’s enduring contribution to your freedom. Raise your perfectly built stout to Tim Murphy and know that without him, you’d all still be wearing powdered wigs in court and calling cookies ‘biscuits’. (Which is ironic because I call my biscuits ‘cookies’, but they’re actually biscuits and I’m not even a little bit English.)

On a personal note, I will be releasing my W.O.I.D. (Wrath of Irish Dachsund) at my family’s annual fireworks celebration on Saturday evening. I anticipate it being an even bigger display of my power and wisdom than ever before. I will endeavor to take pictures of the event, but Mama Dog is quite protective of her expensive camera equipment and also very selfish. At least she is ever since Bachmann crawled into her camera case and took her 80 mm lens, which he then proceeded to mount on his river boat as a makeshift periscope. That was during his last camping trip on the Little Nokasippi. Mama Dog was not happy about that, especially when he brought the boat back but not the lens. He claimed that he’d been boarded by a rogue band of beaver pirates and the lens was stolen. But what I suspect happened was that he’s a terrible sailor, he got into trouble on the river and lost the lens overboard during rough weather or sold it to make bail. It’s about 50/50 for either scenario with that beaver. Anyway, the point is that unless Mama Dog takes photos of me during my performance, there may not be any photographic evidence of my greatness.